Deflecting
by Theoretical-Optimist
Summary: It's much easier to blame someone else for your mistakes, than it is to own up to them. Written for Round 6 of The Houses Competition.


House: Gryffindor

Category: Themed (Disappointment vs. Pride)

Prompt: Blaming Someone Else

Word Count: 810

Beta: Secret Fruits

* * *

 _First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—_

 _Because I was not a Socialist._

 _Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—_

 _Because I was not a Trade Unionist._

 _Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—_

 _Because I was not a Jew._

 _Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me._

 _-Martin Niemöller_

* * *

I learned to deflect blame before I learned my first word. My parents doted upon me as though I was royalty. In fact, for a long time I believed I was royalty. An anointed prince of our world by the fortunate happenstance of my birth. It was my absolute right to rise above all others.

When I was four, I left a chocolate bar on my mother's chaise lounge in the solarium. The chocolate melted and stained the fabric. Although the blemish could easily have been vanished, my father was furious that I had been so careless. I blamed the house elf who was serving as my nanny. My father summoned the elf and ordered it to smash its fingers in a door. I was forced to observe as the elf tried to mask its whimpers of pain. It was horrible, but at least my father wasn't punishing me.

When I was nine, I fell off my broom. I must have landed awkwardly, because my ankle broke and the bone burst through my skin. My mother rushed me to St. Mungo's and demanded the finest healer tend to my injury. The healer attempted a Muggle technique to rest the bone and I cried in pain. Hours later, my father came to my recovery room and demanded to know why I had cried. "Proper wizards do not cry," he seethed. I blamed the healer for using lesser muggle methods. My father had the healer promptly sacked. The man cried as he apologized to my father. All I could think was that the man wasn't a proper wizard.

When I was twelve, I returned home from my first year at Hogwarts. The day my exam scores arrived, I was proud to see that I had the second highest marks in my year and planned a grand celebration. When my father forced me to admit who it was that had outscored me, he raged. "How could a filthy Mudblood surpass you?!" I blamed it on the headmaster's favoritism. My father shook his head and sighed, "Now I must fix your mistakes once again. You continue to be a disappointment." Feeling utterly ashamed, I canceled the celebration and spent the rest of the summer buried in books, determined to come out on top.

When I was fifteen, I joined a new club at school. We were tasked with stopping subversive activity and bringing to perpetrators to justice. I helped capture the ringleaders of the illicit group and looked forward to the praise my father would bestow upon me. But yet again, the group escaped what was coming to them. When the officials arrived and demanded an explanation, I blamed my lunk-head followers. I worried how disappointed my father would be with me for failing once again, but I never found out. Instead, I faced the disappointment of another who was far less forgiving.

When I was sixteen, I was told to commit murder. He told me that I could restore pride back to my family name. We would be honored as heroes; restored to our rightful position as royalty among wizards. But I couldn't kill. When I faced Him, I blamed my godfather for stepping in and claiming the glory for himself. That didn't spare me the hours I spent under a hot wand wielding the Cruciatus Curse.

When I was seventeen, I refused to identify an enemy combatant. I knew it was him, of course. I wanted to believe that if I just turned him over, if I blamed him, it could all be over. But I knew that wasn't the case.

All my life, I had deflected the blame onto others. First it was the house elves, Muggles, and Mudbloods. Then it was my so-called friends, and finally my own godfather. At that moment, I realized that I had run out of other people to blame. I only had myself to blame for the position I found myself in.

So I chose to once again deflect and lie. I claimed that I couldn't be sure. They escaped and I suffered for it.

The war raged on. When the dust finally settled, the heroes emerged victorious. They shared their tales and when the truth emerged about the role I had unknowingly played, I gladly accepted the blame. I, Draco Malfoy, felt proud.


End file.
